Bloody Monday
by Gigawolf1
Summary: When an old friend of Grissom comes to Vegas, not all is as it appears. This is my first CSI Fic
1. Bloody Monday

Bloody Monday

Sunday, July 22, 2007

23:59:03

"I told you I'd get you home before Monday, didn't I?" asked a man to the woman beside him. The cold and dark night surrounded them, far from the famous casinos which they had left shortly earlier. After a night of drinking, spending time with the hookers, and barely avoiding a DUI, he tended to take them home. But when he came to Vegas looking for a better time and an old friend, he found a better girl, and as much as she loved a good time, he knew he wouldn't get any that night.

"Ya, you did, but don't think that makes you lucky."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

"I'll bet it didn't." She leaned in and kissed him gently, drawing his breath into her. She then turned and entered her building. She got into her apartment before collapsing, flushed. "God, I'm so fucking wasted! He's gonna get lucky next time for sure if he keeps getting me so fucking drunk." She laughed to herself and went to lie on the couch, not for a moment imagining that there would never be a next time.

He began to walk towards his hotel, when he remembered his room key was in his car. Whenever he got drunk, he left it in the underground parking of the building, giving him a good reason to come back in the morning. He stumbled up to the parking attendant, and spoke to him. "Hey kid, you know where my car is? I forgot my fucking room key in my fucking car."

The attendant grinned. "Another unlucky night, Mr. Walters?"

"Kid, I thought I told you to call me Henry."

"And I asked you not to call me kid."

"Yep, you did. So you can keep calling me Mr. Walters, I guess, 'cause I call everyone kid. It's not anything personal, kid, so don't take it that way. Hey, could you point me to my fucking car? I've got one bitch of a headache. Fuck, I get sober fast."

The attendant pointed it out. "There it is. I'll unlock it for you, but you've got to hurry. The garage closes right at midnight, and I'm not supposed to stay late."

Henry Walters, age 47, got his key to the Holiday Inn room he had rented while looking for an old friend, and then got back to the man he called 'Kid'. "Say, kid, you driving out towards my hotel? Maybe you could give me a ride, 'cause I can't walk with a fucking hangover."

Monday, July 23, 2007

00:03:35

James B. Martin, age 26, drove Henry Walters directly to his hotel, after closing up the garage. During the 20 block drive, they spoke about the woman Henry had been dating, and various other topics. Arriving, Henry found his headache was far worse than he had imagined. James offered to assist Henry in reaching his room, and the drunken Henry accepted. Together, they stumbled into the elevator, rode up six floors, and entered the single room.

Lying down on the bed, Henry Walters never recovered from his headache. At 00:05:17, James B. Martin took a steak knife from his pocket and stabbed Henry Walters in the throat. Leaving the knife, he waited until he was sure the man was dead, lying in a puddle of his own drying blood, before leaving. He reached the lobby before the receptionist noticed the blood upon his shirt, and called the police. He stood in the lobby for a moment, thinking, and then went to a nearby phone.

Twenty blocks away, in her apartment, Samantha Matthews answered her phone to the panting of a murderer. Cautiously, but still drunkenly, she asked, "Who is this?"

"I got rid of him for you."

01:35:37

The phone in the office of Gilbert Grissom, head of the CSI team, rang furiously. Finally, he answered, hoping it was little more than a minor annoyance. Sadly for him, there was no such fortune on his side.

"Grissom? We've got another body, and you're not going to be happy."

Grissom, who had been head of the unit for several years, had never heard his friend Al say those words in that kind of tone. His mind was tired, but it soon came to a conclusion which brought fear to his heart. "Is it Sara?"

"No," the word brought relief to the seasoned CSI, "but it seems it's one of your old friends. He was killed in his hotel room, and the killer hung out in the lobby until the cops took him. They found him with a knife in his throat. Long dead by the time they got there, but I just got off with his family on the west coast. They said he came to Vegas to see you about something."

A chill returned to Grissom, reminding him morbidly of mere moments earlier. "What was his name?" he asked, already expecting the answer.

"Henry Walters."

Monday, July 23, 2007

02:02:37

Grissom stood over the body of Henry Walters, his body reeking of blood. "The killer left him in the blood for quite a while. Before the police got there, the sheets had soaked up quite a bit. This is an incredibly cut-and-dry case, and all we needed was identification. Seems our killer called the victim's girlfriend, though. Like I said, when I called the family, they said he was in Vegas to see you. Gave your name and everything, so it wasn't easy to miss."

The chill returned to Grissom as he stared at the man's body. The last time he saw him, things had been much different. He thought of all that he had dealt with which involved the man before him. Instead, he asked Dr. Robbins, "Where's his girlfriend now?

"Talking to the cops. They need some stuff to take to court, but it's not really a question. The kid's going to be charged, don't you worry. Why, think she needs to be comforted?"

No proper answer could express how Grissom felt about the matter, and all Al thought of as his friend left, he wondered exactly who the dead man had been.

02:37:14

Sam held her face in her hands until a soft voice broke her thoughts. "Do you think it'll be alright for you to go home, or would you like a police escort?" asked an officer who brought her a coffee. After what she had been through, he knew she needed rest, but she requested what was possibly the worst drink for her.

"I need to sober up. If he had been sober, he would have walked home. It's my fault for letting him get so god-damned drunk. I'm not going to get drunk again." Even she didn't believe her words; in her mind, only drink could chase away the horrors of the night.

The door opened as another officer entered. "There's a friend of the victim who'd like to speak to you, miss Matthews. Would it be all right if he comes in here?" A nod was sufficient for the man to understand the grieving woman's response. He called in Grissom, and the CSI sat.

The words were almost across her lips when he spoke. "I'm sorry for your loss, miss Matthews, but I have some questions. I was told he was here to see me about something. You wouldn't happen to know if he mentioned it or anything, would you?"

Her eyes almost leapt open. "He said he was in Vegas to see a friend. That's all he said, alright? Tell the cops that's all he said about it, and leave me alone."

"He was here to see me. I need to know why, miss Matthews. Did he say why he came to see me?" The urgency in her voice broke her confusion. "Do you know or not?"

Monday, July 23, 2007

03:19:38

Grissom drove between the hotel and his office. He knew he had to be at work if any calls came, but he still felt the urge to look through the hotel room. He couldn't help but feel that he had missed the key to the problem, though no other would see any problem. A murderer soaked in blood, fingerprints, a hysterical girlfriend… It was a solved case. However, Grissom wasn't bothered by the case, but instead, he was greatly troubled by the reason for someone he barely knew to visit him.

A sudden ring broke him from his thoughts. He answered his cell phone, and instantly the words confronted him. "Griss, I think I've found why our boy came down to visit you. Get down here; you need to see it to believe it."

03:24:35

"Griss, our boy had a wonderfully developed tumour in his brain. I told the police, and apparently, the killer said he had one hell of a headache on the way to the hotel. No hangover could do that, and the guy was drunk as hell. This thing was going to kill him soon. I think that's why he came to see you, but the rest just gets weird."

Warrick Brown led Grissom to the lab, where several blood samples were spread on the desk. Sara was examining them, her face darkened with shock.

"There was a lot of blood at the crime scene, more than one man's body can hold. And while his blood was A, there are all sorts of blood here. No one but the killer came into his room since he checked in, but this blood wasn't from anyone in Vegas. Several of the bags showed strong signs of coagulation, and he didn't get here for a few days. In his trunk, we found a cooler. There were a couple of cold packs of blood in the room's mini-fridge. He had a sleeping bag on the floor, and the bed wasn't slept in. The maid said the bed was always fine because he never slept in it."

She looked into her lover's eyes as she finished her analysis. "When he collapsed on the bed, blood poured out. He was storing warm blood in the bed. Most of it wasn't completely dried, but it looks like he was storing it for something big."

04:28:13

Grissom searched his attic for a solid hour before finally finding what he was looking for. His high school yearbook held memories he hated, phasing between stages of life amongst the uncaring peers. Even then, however, he wasn't alone. He looked through the pages, and found Henry Walters. A solemn young man then, he was now just another corpse in the endless sea of the dead. And on the back page of the book were written the all-too-true words of a man who had not yet reached the peak of his desperation; words which, at the time, seemed much more innocent than they would have from a dying man…

'One day Gil, I'm gonna give you a hell of a murder mystery to solve. And I'll be damned if you do.

H. W.'

**Inspired by _My Bloody Valentine_, sung by _Good Charlotte_**

**Dedicated to a friend of mine for her 17th birthday**

**I really hate Mondays…**


	2. Behind the Monday

Behind the Monday

I don't normally do this sort of thing, but people wanted me to continue, so…

This story is finished. All loose ends have been tied up as far as I can see.

One reviewer mentioned four mysteries. This is only to clear up these mysteries. Any other questions will be answered later, but first…

Know this: I do not watch CSI. My friend likes the show, so I did a tiny bit of research to write a story she would like. I have seen about 1 ½ episodes in total. While I am happy that a major CSI fan enjoyed this short fic, I cannot continue partially due to the fact I have no idea how the characters interact on a meaningful level.

Why Gil kept the Yearbook: The easiest to explain. Nobody ever throws out a yearbook. You either love it or hate it, but either way, you forget about it in your attic.

Gil's relationship with Henry: Both were 'ghosts' in high school. Henry was a young biology student, same as Gil. Henry had difficulty with school, and was tutored by several older students, including Gil. However, Henry remained a 'ghost', and this time embittered him (see below)

Source of the blood: Early on in the story, it is mentioned that Henry spent time with several hookers. As the reader may or may not know, hookers are people who get paid for the use of their bodies. This means they are likely to end up with numerous diseases referred to as Sexually Transmitted Diseases. These can also be transferred through use of needles, and other exchanges of bodily fluids

Girlfriend's/Killer's Motives: First, I find it hilarious that we give people titles. Victim, Killer, Girlfriend, and Good Guy. Second, the beginning of the story is based on 'Bloody Valentine' by Good Charlotte. In the song, the singer kills a girl's boyfriend because he loves her. He then calls her to tell her what he's done. This is what happens in the story.

Finally, What is my point? No one's asked this, because I am sure they feel this is a very cut-and-dry thing. The victim must be a nice guy, a Good Guy, because he got killed. Doesn't matter he has gallons of blood in a bed; he must be pitied, for he's dead. Henry had a tumour, and combined with years of isolation, he snapped. In his darker days during his youth, he became deeply troubled, and potentially dangerous.

Studying biology, he found a place for himself. He understood many facts about the human body. His life was actually quite decent until his tumour became malignant. Doctors told him he had months to live, but he had another idea. His depression returned, and he remembered what he had once sworn to do. He began to get hookers drunk, and siphoned amounts of blood from them. No one cares for the people in the underworld; to most people, they have no rights.

Taking advantage of the low self-esteem and subsequent sub-human status of people, Henry used his knowledge of biology to devise a nearly perfect way of killing someone. Different blood types cannot be donated to a person because certain antibodies and antigens are in certain kinds of blood; these are a basic method of detecting foreign cells. However, the many STD's in the blood of hookers would likely kill anyone who survived a blood transfusion, as the blood type AB Positive has no reaction to human blood of any kind. It could take years for someone to realize they were dying, and from no logical source; or, it could take mere minutes. Either way, the United States law has a wonderful loophole that allows dead criminals to walk away without punishment.

Henry dated Samantha with the full intention of killing her, and then taunting Gil until his natural death mere days later.

This story has a moral, and it is: Do not engage in sexual activities with people you do not know very well, especially on a Monday.


	3. Dark Mourning

Dark Mourning

Friday, December 21, 2007

16:53:37

Her bare hands were cold. Even in the desert, no one could escape the cold wind that brought the night. The Las Vegas native stood in the midst of the dead, surrounded by graves which marked those who had passed over the years. One grave in particular drew her in, like a lighthouse beacon.

She remembered when she had met him, under the bright lights in a dark room. It had been yet another night in Vegas, and she had gone to what should have been just another party. However, while sitting at the bar, she saw him in the light, illuminated like an angel. She looked away, afraid that he would notice, but eventually looked back to see him again. When she did, he had vanished.

She had been surprised when she turned back to the bar and found him beside her. He introduced himself, and the dream had begun. Sadly for her, the dream had quickly become a nightmare, as only a few weeks later, she had received a phone call from the odd parking attendant in her apartment building, who said he killed her angel.

She had never told him that she loved him. He had come from nowhere, entered her life, and made her happier than she had ever been. She fought back tears and the urge to scream as she remembered dreaming of him. She knew that relationships, especially in Vegas, were rarely long-lasting, but death was very sudden nonetheless.

She could no longer control herself, and she broke into tears as the sun set in the west. Her tears left the ground pockmarked, with dark splotches on the cold earth, in the shadow of a grave marked 'Henry Walters: December 21, 1960 – July 23, 2007'.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

05:07:38

She held her pillow tight, tears welling in her eyes. She had awoken from a nightmare, remembering the pain from before. She felt so alone, missing her angel. All she could feel was the pain within, forgetting all that mattered. His death was a death sentence to her, forcing her to wander, lost in thought and ignorant to those around her. At her job, she became distant, as one would expect. However, she had not opened to anyone since he died.

She got up, barely dressed except for a silk nightgown that hugged her gently. Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen, led by a force incomprehensible and unquestionable. For a moment, her pain became anger at him for leaving her. He had betrayed her dreams, but the dam of anger broke again to the pain, and she continued her death march.

05:08:17

She reached to the top of the fridge and pulled down a sharp knife. She held it tenderly before bringing it to her wrist. Held in her position, she had one last internal debate about the risk of taking her own life. Then, as though guided by hands not her own, she brought the blade into her own flesh, and let the blood flow free. Then, like a woman possessed, she brought the blade to her own heart, jabbing it between the protective ribs. She fell forward, moments from death, satisfied that the pain would finally go away.

**Inspired by _I Miss You_, sung by _Blink 182_**

**I thought I might as well make a sequel to _Bloody Monday_…**

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year**


End file.
